


truckin

by ficfucker



Category: Letterkenny (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Never Met, Alternate Universe - Truckers, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: wayne hauls produce and such for the folks of letterkenny. daryl is a local farmer that asks for his service. yous know how it goes.
Relationships: Daryl/Wayne (Letterkenny)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 89





	truckin

**Author's Note:**

> bout halfway thru i wanted to write darry as being jewish but too late by then, so perhaps... next time

Darry stands at the start of his lane way, a big blue jacket over his work jumper, smoking a cigarette. Wayne can see the puffs of smoke he exhales as he pulls up. Darry quirks into a smile, dart balancing between his lips in a way that suggests it's not a new habit, and waves to Wayne with his ungloved hand.

Wayne gives a nod. He rolls down his window and calls out, "Where at?"

"I'll direct ya!"

Wayne rolls his window back up and follows Darry in the truck around the main house to a smaller work building that he assumes is the spot where pasteurization and bottling occur. Wayne backs up and parks so his trailer is right by the door Darry's indicating to.

Wayne opens his door and hops down.

"Fuckin' serious with that turtleneck?" is the first thing Darry asks when Wayne's close enough to be spoken to.

Wayne's face remains neutral. "Lose a lot of heat in the neck. Name's Wayne. Figgure you're Daryl."

Wayne offers his hand and while they shake, Darry says, "Everyone calls me Darry."

"Darry the Dairy Farmer?"

"You have it all yerself?"

Wayne's face hardens and he turns towards the white building, the black door they're stood by with a small wooden ramp. "Well. Let's get at 'er."

Darry nods and stomps up the ramp, opens the door, and starts wheeling out stacked crates of bottled milk on an old blue dolly. "Crates too heavy at a time, I'll pack 'em lighter."

"Won't be an issue, mostly likely." Wayne opens the trailer of his truck and starts loading the milk crates in.

Darry whistles and snickers. "Big Shoots comin' through!" He watches Wayne a minute, turns away to spit, then asks, "How you get guns like that jus' drivin' a truck all day?"

Wayne grunts and sets another crate down, pushes it back so it's tucked safely against the rear wall of the trailer. "Seein' as I'm loading it too, there you have yer answer."

"Sound logic."

Wayne keeps at his task while Darry watches him, dart smoldering down to a butt which he flicks aside. There's a cool sheen of sweat coating the back of Wayne's neck, which chills frigid in the brisk air, but he wouldn't go so far as to wear a heavy jacket like the one Darry's got on. He doesn't like being watched, but technically Darry's the boss here, seeing as it's his farm, his milk, and most importantly, his money that's going to make home in Wayne's wallet, so he grits his teeth and hauls crate after crate until they're stacked neat as bricks in his trailer and he pulls the doors shut.

"Fast an' steady," Darry says approvingly. He's smiling at Wayne's job well done, but it softens his features and causes him to look young and naive in a way that Wayne can't explain, and it makes Wayne wonder how a guy like this could run a whole operation. He doesn't look much like a leader. Too goofy an edgy to him.

"If a man can be one thing, he should be efficient, that's what I always say."

Darry smiles again and pulls a black leather wallet from the back pocket of his coveralls, opens the folds to produce Wayne his money. "Same time an' place next week?"

Wayne takes the money, folds it neatly in half, and tucks it in the front pocket of his jeans. "10-4."

"Over an' out."

They shake hands again and Wayne gets back into his truck. Darry watches him go, standing on the porch of the main house, and when Wayne looks in his side mirror, Darry raises his ungloved hand and waves.

Wayne nods and pulls out onto the road.

* * *

Wayne lives a rather solitary life. He runs trucks and deliveries for local farms and produce providers 5 days a week, with weekends to himself and his dogs, Gus and Stormy, who during the long work days, are taken care of by his close friend, Squirelly Dan. He's got a sister, Katy, but ever since pursuing a career in modeling, she's gone up to the city and rarely comes around these days. They keep in touch through text and calls, but Wayne's not huge on that form of communication.

On weekends, he tends his crops, though his land isn't as large as he'd like it to be. Even if he had the farm he dreamed of, most of his time is spent on the road, packing his trailer then driving hours from Letterkenny and other small Ontario towns to Quebec and Montreal. On certain trips, he'll take along his German Shepherd, Stormy, who sits shotgun in the relatively small cab, but her having to get out to piss is a setback and Wayne is a good old boy and likes to retain a timely schedule, especially since most of the people he works for are independent businesses and he respects them deeply.

Darry's a new character in his rotation. Darry had called Wayne and asked if there were any fitting openings in his week to collect milk and occasionally other dairy products once weekly for the foreseeable future. Wayne and him worked out a time and Darry promised a high pay, which Wayne wasn't one to turn down.

Wayne decides, while driving with Darry's crates of milk in the back of the truck, he's impartial to Darry, with his soft, goofy grin and watchful eyes. No reason to hate the guy, but Wayne probably won't linger around like he does with other farmers he ships for. For long time business relationships, Wayne will open up to some chatter, chin wag and even joke around before he's on his way.

With Darry? Surface level conversations and Wayne will take his money and ship out.

* * *

"Should get you some gloves," Darry says.

Wayne moves another crate. It's getting colder by the day, but Wayne's still in just his flannel, black turtleneck underneath. "Have some," he answers.

"An' not wearin' 'em?" Darry munches another handful of all dressed chips. "Get frostbite in your line of work an' be shit outta luck."

Wayne grunts, annoyed. "Not cold enough for frostbite yet."

Darry laughs through his nose. "Tell that to the dairy cows. Teats go blue if I even try to let them out to pasture these past few days, fuckin' eh."

"Expose I'm tougher than a dairy cow then."

"Fulla shit, bud. Gals could take you out so quick you wouldn't know what hit you."

"Well. Got no reason to go against one."

Darry smiles and laughs. "Reckon they won't charge ya without reason."

"Glad to hear it."

"Welcome to meet 'em if you want."

Wayne exhales through his nose, wants to work in silence. "Might take you up late on that offer, bud."

"Cows ain't goin' anywhere."

Darry keeps eating his chips and Wayne keeps moving the milk, and once Wayne's done, Darry says, "Hang tight one second," and disappears into the building.

He returns with an unopened bag of all dressed chips and pushes it into Wayne's arms then goes for his wallet to pay.

Wayne blinks. "What for?"

Darry counts out the bills and without looking up, says, smiling, "Any good old boy likes all dressed chips an' thought maybe you'd like somethin' to snack on while you drive. Every guy I know likes a little treat to munch on when he's on the road. " Darry holds out the money and adds, "An' you're quick as a whip with those crates. Appreciate it."

Wayne nods. "Fuckin' love all dressed chips." He gives the bag a little jostle in his arms so it crinkles, takes the money Darry's still got held out towards him. "An' no pedestrian efforts for anythin'. Certainly not locals."

As Wayne climbs back into his truck, Darry calls out, "Dyin' breed!"

* * *

"Gots my hands on some of that infamous Darry's Dairy the others day," Dan says.

Wayne sips his Puppers and crosses his ankles, curls his toes so they crack. Feels good to be sitting on the porch after Sunday choring, even if it's colder than a witches tit and he's got to bundle up with more than just a turtleneck. "Well, what's the verdict, Super Chief?"

"Oh, it's good." Dan nods sincerely. "Wouldn't figures a milk could tastes all thats different, on accounts of how it all comes froms cows, but honest to God, Wayne, there's a distinct difference to this milks."

"Always should be honest," Wayne mutters. He crosses his arms. "What exactly makes this milk so spectacular? So special? So specific in nature you've continued to think of it?"

"The creaminess of its, most likely…" Dan scratches his beard with thought, his eyebrows going together. "Goes downs smooth as silks, I'll tell ya."

"All milk goes down smooth."

"Yous should give it a goes, Wayne. Won't regrets it."

Wayne grumbles, similar in noise to a rooster when he's warning his flock of danger. "Mmmmmmno."

"What? Gots somethin' againsts Darry?"

"No, but like. He's… fuckin' weird, you know?"

Dan doesn't know. He's never met Darry in person, only heard a few here and theres from Wayne when he asks about his deliveries. Wayne mentioned he'd taken on a new local farmer, but never gone into detail about the owner.

"I don't knows, Wayne."

Wayne recrosses his arms and takes a rigid gulp of his Puppers. "Like, think he fuckin' might be a sally."

"Oh, _Wayne_ ," Dan gasps, shocked and incredulous. "Shouldn't be callin's any man a sally likes that. Offensives, you know. Borderin' on homophobics."

"Not in a homosexual way. Mean he's… soft. 10 ply. Look at the kid an' kinna go 'Bet this fella thinks beige is a good color for his kitchen'."

"Like you gives him a glance an' just know he wishes ons dandelions?"

Wayne nods. "Like. See this guy an' yer gut tells ya he's got his name embroidered in his underwear."

"Makes you thinks he collects four leafs clovers?"

"Like… Darry probably has a habit of knitting and isn't afraid to tell you about it."

"And you says he's a hick?"

Wayne nods. "Oh, true an' blue. Almost a little greasy. But fuck if he ain't a puddle jumper."

Dan chuckles and finishes off his beer. "An' yer avoidin' his wares 'cuz of it?"

"Yep."

"Don't sounds… sound."

Wayne squints out at where the dull sun is hidden behind the clouds, making things momentarily colder. "Don't have time to go 'round tryin' all the wares of everyone I haul for. Sides, won't drink milk from someone who's nothin' but spare parts."

Wayne's got this confusing interest in Darry. It stumps and frustrates him, how he'll be in the home stretch on his own road, about to see Stormy and Gus for the first time in ten hours and suddenly he'll have Darry's smile in his head. How it softens his entire face, shows the whole row of his top teeth. How he, two times counting, has waved Wayne goodbye from the porch of the main house.

What bothers Wayne most is his not knowing why he thinks of Darry.

Dan lights up a dart and offers one to Wayne, who thankfully accepts the smoke.

"Man who gives yous chips, you ought to buys his milk, just on principles."

"What kind of fuckin' equation is that?" Wayne mutters. "Milk is milk, Dan."

Dan shrugs, watches Wayne with an amused expression, like he somehow knows something that Wayne doesn't. "Might surprise yas," Dan says in a way that makes Wayne feel like they're not talking about milk anymore.

* * *

"Katy, how're ya now?"

"Good an' you?"

"Oh, not s'bad. How's the city treatin' you?"

Katy sighs. "Not so bad, but sometimes citidiots really make a gal miss home."

"Always welcome back."

"Money isn't bad, that's for sure."

"Citidiots were in the cards," Wayne points out. He wants another Puppers from the fridge, but Gus is sprawled out asleep on his lap and it'd be a goddamn sin to wake a snoozing senior dog. He rubs Gus's ears.

"Can confirm. How's the trucking, big brother?"

"Oh, not s'bad. Stackin' crates and movin' freight."

"Weather treating you fair?"

"Colder by the day, but can't complain."

"Nothin' new?"

Wayne pauses and considers it, but before he can really make up his mind whether or not Darry's worth mentioning, he says, "Hauling milk for a new one."

Katy's voice perks up with interest. "Yeah? What's the scoop?"

"Some hick who works in dairy."

"Got a name?"

"... Darry."

"Like Daryl?"

"Yuh."

"'Kay… What's his story?"

"Pulls teats. Bottles milk. You know the life good as any other."

"Well. Like. Is he cute?"

Wayne swallows and mutes the television, suddenly distracted by any and all background noise, like he's got to listen to an engine rattle cool to see if she's running right and even a single cricket chirp will distract him. "Business partners aren't cute. He's a sally, but a good guy. Pays well. Couldn't ask for better."

"What makes him a sally?"

"Gave Dan the run around earlier today. He's awkward. Waves from the porch every time I leave, soft as a baby's bum. Smiles like he's up in the clouds and never fixing to come down."

"What, like a skid?"

"Jesus, Katy. No. He's a hick much as I ever seen or been one, fuck."

"So what's the hang up?"

Wayne groans, because fuck, he don't even know the answer. "Spare parts. Can tell jus' by lookin'."

Katy kind of half laughs and it statics through the phone. "Like you have it all yourself? Give yer balls a tug."

"Expose it ain't polite to say somethin' when it's nothin' nice."

"Never answered my question," Katy says after a minute.

"Not exposed to be sweet on business partners," Wayne says automatically.

"Tween us girls then."

Wayne closes his eyes to picture Darry in his head: gray beanie pulled on to hide all those springy curls. Face flushed from the cold and flecked with freckles, some on his hands, Wayne noticed when he was passed the bag of all dressed chips. Blue eyes pert near hypnotizing, on account of how when you meet his gaze, you can tell within a second he's got laughter living inside him just waiting to get out.

"Not bad to look at, but soft'r 'an baby shit an' he watches me work. Fuckin' whole world knows more hands make less work an' you stand there dumb as a fence post, you might as well—"

"Maybe he's enjoyin' the show," Katy teases.

"Katy."

"Wayne."

"Not polite."

"Tellin' me you wanna spend another winter alone in the house?"

Wayne clenches his jaw defensively despite no one being around to see. A reflex as natural as squaring up to fight. "Got the dogs here."

"Oh, they're good dogs," Katy says, a smile in her voice.

"Oh, they're fine dogs." Wayne gives Gus a loving pat.

"Excellent dogs, but—"

"No buts."

"But. If this Darry fella is cute, get after it."

"You wanna know what? Oughta be puttin' another log on the fire 'fore it goes out."

Wayne can practically hear Katy rolling her eyes, but she says, "'Kay. Talk to ya."

"Yuh. Talk to ya."

* * *

"Wanna see the new calf?"

Wayne spits off to the side and says, "What?"

"Buttercup slung a calf last night. Wanna see her?"

Wayne squints and looks up to the sky, where the sun is cottoned in by some fat white clouds, then makes eye contact with Darry. "Pitter patter then. Got other pickups."

Darry grins excitedly and waves an arm as direction, and Wayne slams his trailer shut and follows after him. Darry leads him to a classic red barn, spacious inside with wide stalls sectioned by thick, rustic slats of worn wood, each rectangular area filled neatly with yellow straw.

In the last stall is a mostly black dam with her calf, dark as pitch like her mama, save for her face. Marshmallow white. She looks like a sheet ghost, two black circles over her eyes, a black nose. The mother moos when she notices Darry, raises her head up slow, not at all alarmed.

"Ain't she somethin'?" Darry murmurs. He's starry-eyed and proud and Wayne can't blame him.

"Gorgeous calf there, Darry."

"Go in and pet her, if you like. Buttercup isn't 'fraid of people, even when she's nursin'."

Wayne really should say no, on account of his imaginary rule of not sticking around to chew the fat with Darry, but the way Darry's said it, Wayne knows it'd tickle him pink if he said yes. So Wayne says yes and steps into the stall and drops to a crouch to show he's not meaning any harm.

"Hold yer hand out," Darry instructs. "Let her sniff ya."

Wayne does as told and Buttercup flares her nostrils in two quick huffs, extends her giant pink tongue, and gives him a long, sloppy lick. With that greeting out of the way, Wayne reaches down, runs his hand along the knobby back of the newborn, the broad expanse of her shoulders.

Darry giggles. "A peach, ain't she?"

"A spectacular specimen and I should say."

And once again, Wayne has that feeling that something more is going on than what's being said.

* * *

Snow comes, as is expected, but it doesn't slow milk production. Wayne gets to wearing his winter jacket and gloves, which naturally produces a few comments from Darry. Not much changes for a while beside the temperature, steadily dropping. Routine is maintained: Wayne works the week, spends his off time with his pups and shoveling out neighbors. Katy calls to ask how things are and Wayne answers "Good'n you?" every time.

Thoughts of Darry increase. Wayne spends more and more time thinking about the tit while he drives, when he's home washing dishes, when he's feeding the fire. They're pretty neutral, memories of his most recent delivery, but it bothers Wayne fiercely. He's not looking for love and he'll be damned if love comes to him in the form of such a sally.

If anyone else in his life was so fucking soft, he wouldn't have the time of day for them.

A week and some odd days before Christmas, Wayne parks beside the white work building as he always does. The property has been plowed neatly, large snowbanks heaped into curling piles out of the way. Snow swirls down slowly, in thin, fragile flakes that don't gather up to much more than a dusting.

Darry has a few of those flakes clinging to his eyelashes. Wayne pretends not to notice.

"Nippy today, ain't she?"

Wayne hums. "Pert near fuckin' frigid."

Darry wheels out the milk crates and this time around, he helps lift them into the truck. Doesn't say a word, just offers them out to Wayne so he can stack them in the back. With the help, work gets done in half the time.

"Now, don't be actin' like an old mule with this one," Darry says firmly, with a raised eyebrow.

Wayne doesn't question it and watches as Darry disappears into the building, returns with two half gallon jugs of eggnog. "A holiday treat from me to you, Wayne, and I don't want any lip 'bout how you can't accept it."

Wayne swallows. "Thank you, Darry," he says. He takes the jugs and when Darry holds out his pay, he takes that too.

"'Course, bud. Appreciate your work effort round here."

"Always say, if a man can be one thing, he should be efficient."

Darry grins. His nose is rosy from the cold. Another flake catches in his lashes and Wayne, absurdly, wants to thumb it away. "Are you willing to come by Christmas Eve?" he asks, suddenly serious. "Understand if you take the season off."

Most of the time, Wayne does stay home, Christmas to New Year, spends his time holed up in the house watching hockey and drinking himself stupid, but for whatever fucking reason, he says, "Can do."

Wayne has to juggle the eggnog under his arms, but they shake on it.

* * *

"Thought you didn't fuck with tradition."

Wayne grumbles. "A man asks for help, you help him. Locally sourced produce is the bedrock of a well functioning society. What's the problem?"

"Sounds like tough sleddin' for a sally you don't even like."

"Fuck's sake, Katy, I don't choose who I work for."

"But… you do. If you hate the guy so much, you'd drop him like a hot rock."

Wayne furrows his brow, annoyed because Katy, as always, is reading him like a goddamn book. He roughs Stormy's scruff and doesn't respond immediately.

"Still on the line, Poopy Pants?"

Wayne says, "Still on the line."

"Think you oughta admit it, Big Brother. You've caught feelings something awful for this Darry fella and you're afraid of what it means."

"No, I never," Wayne mumbles.

"Wayne, if you're gay—"

"Youwannaknowwhat? My sexual orientation is strictly my business, and in the event of me having a partner, then it will become _their_ business, but for now, I would like to ask you keep your nose out of it."

Katy huffs and by the sound of it, switches the phone to her other ear. "Don't be a dink. I asked how you were and you started talkin' about Darry. I wouldn't say I stuck my nose anywhere you didn't already point out."

"You asked about Christmas. I answered honestly. On the Eve, Darry wants me to take one last delivery before the new year."

"A man should always be honest," Katy says.

"A man should always be honest," Wayne confirms.

"So. Be honest with yourself and get after it."

* * *

To say the sky is overcast when Wayne warms his truck is an understatement. The atmosphere is downright grizzly and a prickle of apprehension ghosts him with goosebumps, but never the one to ditch when there's work to be done, he ignores his gut instinct to call in.

By the time he's halfway to Darry's property, the snow is coming down in sheets. Fat flakes splattering against his windshield like great white moths. He runs his wipers on high, metronoming wildly, but the road is a haze and if there were a spot to stop off, Wayne would pull aside and show up late.

Darry would understand, right?

Wayne doesn't have the opportunity to, so he keeps on keeping on. The radio is turned from music to the news, which spits impending doom when they discuss weather, so Wayne flicks it off to save his nerves. He white knuckles the steering wheel. It's not his first time in the snow, but even a cidiot with half a brain would be aware of the dangers.

The wooden sign that advertises Darry's Dairy appears on the horizon and if Wayne could afford to be a religious man, he'd be thanking God. The road is empty other than him so he takes it nice and slow, doesn't want to rooster tail right before he reaches his safe spot.

Darry's bundled up proper. His scarf is wrapped around the bottom half of his face and his beanie conceals just about the rest. All that peeks out are his blue eyes. He waves Wayne up to the main house.

"Tried callin' ya!" Darry shouts, voice muffled.

Wayne hops out, lands in snow up to his knees. "Cellular lost connection!" he shouts back. He hoofs it onto the porch, tries to stomp the snow out of his jeans.

"Was hopin' you'd stay home," Darry says softly. He sounds embarrassed. He clears his throat and adds, "Didn't want you shipwrecked here, seein' it's Christmas Eve and all, and the roads have gone to hell."

"Can wait her out in the truck," Wayne says quickly. He wants an escape, but he's blanketed in by the snow, which is still pelting down at the same unrelenting pace.

Darry changes his footing and his eyes flicker away for a split second. "Well, if you're not opposin', figguring how I'm the one who's gone and called you here, you're more than welcome inside, Wayne. Other farmhands live out on the property so it's just me and my pups."

If Wayne's being honest (and a fella should always be honest), his fingers are starting to go numb even through his gloves and he's not dressed full in snowpants and jeans just aren't cutting it. Whole fuckin' world knows Wayne loves dogs, too, so the prospect of being somewhere warm and dry with some pups isn't too bad a situation to be in.

Wayne asks if he can use Darry's phone.

Darry's eyes crinkle approvingly, a tell that he's smiling under his scarf, and he gives a quick, friendly nod. He opens the door and steps in, beckons Wayne to follow. He takes off his jacket and hangs it on a peg by the door. Wayne does the same.

Two black labs wiggle excitedly by Wayne's legs, one of them leaping up on its hind legs to throw its paws against his front, tongue hanging out. Wayne doesn't mind the attention, but Darry shoos the pups off and points to a land-line mounted on the wall a little ways down the hall.

Wayne punches in Katy's number. He explains his current predicament curtly, leaves no room for her to tease or giggle, and pardons himself for not being home in case she had any plans to stop by for the holiday, as is tradition.

"You know, Wayne, kissin' isn't just for New Year's."

"'Kay. Talk to ya."

The next person Wayne calls is Dan. He apologizes for the inconvenience and asks if Dan can stop by to tend to Stormy and Gus. Dan, reliable as ever, assures Wayne it's absolutely no problem and wishes him a Merry Christmas, promises to call back at the same number to let Wayne know the dogs are taken care of.

"Didn't know you had your own pups," Darry says once Wayne sets the receiver down. "Feel bad yer not gettin' to spend Christmas with 'em…"

"Not Christmas yet," Wayne mutters. "And Dan lives only a half click down the way, can handle any job under the sun."

"Sounds like a great guy."

Wayne nods. "Real great guy…"

Realizing there isn't much more to talk about, Darry stiffens and Wayne squints up to the ceiling, runs his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip.

"Uh," Darry coughs. "Got a pot roast in the crock pot for later. Hungry now, I could make chicken salad or…"

"Chicken salad will do," Wayne says. He skipped breakfast to get on the road, had plans to stop off and pick up snacks, but everything has gone out the window.

Darry nods and goes back into the small kitchen. The place is cozy, well decorated for a man who lives alone. Pale yellow curtains fence in a square window above the sink. Perpendicular is a white gas stove with black burners. On top of the microwave, the refrigerator, set between the salt and pepper shakers are cow figurines. Some wood, some ceramic. All different breeds, too, not just black and white heifers.

Wayne takes a look at the walls. The paper is a blue so light it's nearer to white, patterned with clusters of flowers. Several framed photos hang neatly; old fashioned milk trucks with men in jumpers smiling proudly, a metal crate fit for bottles in hand. Sepia pictures of the property, the cow barns, and pastures. Two folks hip to hip, smiling, that Wayne assumes must be Darry's parents on account of how much he looks like the both of them.

"Allowed to sit, you know," Darry says without turning to face Wayne. He's got a bowl out from one of the cabinets, is dumping chicken into it.

Wayne blinks. He feels as out of place as the devil in church, but he moves from the hallway to the kitchen, pulls a chair out. He sits and assuming he's going to be staying a while, brings his boot into his lap to undo his laces.

Darry halves a bread roll and spreads the chicken salad over it, places it on a white plate. He opens a bag of all dressed chips and adds a handful of those before serving Wayne.

"Drink Puppers?"

"Fuck, bud, could I drink a Puppers."

Darry grabs two from the fridge and hands one to Wayne. He makes his own sandwich then sits across from him. Around a mouthful, he says, "Wayne."

"Darry."

"I am real sorry about having you come all this way jus' to end up stranded…"

"No use apologizin' when you aren't the one who controls the weather."

Darry tries on a smile, despite the flat tone to Wayne's voice, his eyes nervous with guilt, with the desire to please. "Suppose you're right," he murmurs.

Wayne drinks his Puppers and thinks about his coat hanging behind him beside Darry's.

* * *

The weather channel delivers the news that they're looking down the barrel of a blizzard with no intention of letting up. Going to be snowed in like The Shining. Wayne's standing in the doorway of the living room and from where he is, he can see Darry's body tense up on the couch as the broadcaster explains the severity of the storm.

"Fuck a duck," he mumbles.

Wayne isn't sure what to say.

Darry stands and scoots passed Wayne, down the hall. "Ought to go check the gals," he says. "Other hands are already on holiday."

Wayne, still unsure of what to say, follows suit and grabs his coat.

Darry turns around, his face tight with confusion. "You don't gotta come with."

"More hands make less work."

"'Kay. Spose I can't argue on that. But I don't feel right pullin' you along not bundled proper." Darry digs around in the large cargo pockets of his winter coat and produces a black balaclava, holds it out to Wayne.

Wayne pulls it on along with his boots. The mask smells strangely of sunscreen. Once they're both geared up to brave the cold, Darry opens the door and they step out into the wind and snow.

Wayne gets put on checking the troughs. Darry's got bobbers and insulation to fend off freezing, so all he has to do is hose in a few gallons more so it reaches the line on the side to indicate it's full. From afar, he watches as Darry scoops silage. He's good at it, doesn't spill any over the edge of the shovel, is sure to lay it in a line so none of the cows strain or fight.

Wayne appreciates efficiency in anyone; Darry is no exception.

Once that's been dealt with, Wayne joins Darry inside the barn and unsurprisingly, finds him doting over Buttercup and her calf. The babe has a calf blanket on and Darry's squat down in the straw securing a pair of ear warmers to her.

"What's the frequency, Kenneth?"

Darry looks over his shoulder and his eyes scrunch up into a smile. "Strong as her mama. Think she's gonna do just fine," he answers. "Rest of the gals are holdin' their own."

"Couldn't ask for better."

With all the cows safe and fed and content with their freshly laid straw, Darry and Wayne trudge back to the house and strip out of their layers.

"Got a guest bedroom," Darry says softly as he unravels his scarf.

Wayne is dreading the reality of the situation, but considering it's already late into the noontime and the snow drifts are only climbing higher with each passing hour, it's looking like Wayne's stuck here for the night.

"'Kay," Wayne says. The dogs are back to being as excited as toddlers on a sugar high and Wayne busies himself with giving them attention to avoid acknowledging Darry much further.

"Smoke darts?" Darry asks.

Wayne stands erect, fingers sliding into the front belt loop of his blue jeans. "Fuck, bud, could I go for a fuckin' dart."

Darry smiles and goes off to find his pack in the living room, saying, "Welcome to party indoors so long as we crack a window."

Wayne sits on the couch and blows smoke through the bug screen while Darry tosses a couple more logs on the fire. A minute later, Darry flops down beside him with his own cigarette and due to the window being open only a sliver, he's pressed right up there beside Wayne like he's about to whisper a secret.

He puffs a plume out then says, "You know, Wayne, spose now is a good time as any to get to know each other."

Wayne "mmm"s. "Not much an option to do otherwise, is there?"

"Know yer a good ole boy who likes Puppers and darts. Can respect that."

"Fuck kinna degen don't like Puppers and darts?"

Darry closes the window, but doesn't move away. "An inbred one, most likely."

"Fuckin' degens with their craft beers and nose pickin'," Wayne mutters.

"Should leave this world behind, fuckin' eh."

Wayne warms at the ease of conversation between them, surprised to find Darry isn't as spacey as a skid. Not the brightest, sure, but he keeps pace with Wayne just fine. Natural, even. Wayne wishes Darry weren't so awkward, wishes he'd go sit somewhere else so they aren't arm to arm while they chinwag, but fuck, it's Darry's house, he can do as he pleases.

"Handling cows since I was old enough to chase after 'em," Darry says. "Dad was the milkman, when such thing existed, so I guess tendin' the gals came easy for me."

"Shouldn't fuck with tradition."

Darry smiles. "That's my life story, then. What's your history there, Big Shooter?"

"Impolite to talk about yourself."

"Well. Like. Got any family?"

"My sister," Wayne says, "Katy. Gone up to the city for modeling."

"Well, how'd you get into truckin'?"

"Dad tossed bales. Movin' cargo is only a step up."

Darry nods to indicate his listening and there's a moment where he's just looking at Wayne silently. Wayne's about to say something when Darry leans in and swipes his finger a couple centimeters below Wayne's eye. "Got an eyelash," he says. "Make a wish."

"Wish you weren't so fuckin' awkward, bud."

* * *

They check the cows once more that night. Everything is in apple pie order so they retire to Darry's house with no more plans of venturing into the snow, save for when Wayne assists in letting the dogs out to piss. Darry pokes around at the pot roast and when mentioned that he plans to steam some carrots to go along with it, Wayne takes the job of skinning and cutting.

Might be uncomfortable being snowbound with Darry, but Wayne's not the type of prick to stand around and pat his nuts when there's work to be done, especially on account of how Darry's been so open about sharing his house and food.

Darry breaks out some Gus N Bru considering it's Christmas Eve and it only takes him a single slug of the shit to start dancing around the kitchen. Radio's playing the same Christmas jingles it does every year, but Darry is happy and careless, swishing his hips and kicking his feet out.

Wayne stirs the carrots while they steam and bob.

"You dance, Wayne?" Darry asks with a lopsided grin.

"Oh, is that what yer doing over there?"

Darry giggles and leans against the counter he's nearest to. He tosses his head back and shakes the curls out of his face, cheeks warming to a soft pink. "C'mon, bud, where's the holiday spirit?"

Wayne says, "Dancin's not my forte." If he was shit faced, there's the chance that he'd at the very least consider it, but Wayne is far too sober to humor the thought of dancing around stupid as a headless chicken in Darry's kitchen.

Unbothered, Darry sucks down more Bru and resumes his gyrations. He's out of his barn clothes, dressed down in some blue jeans and a short sleeved plaid, which gives Wayne a peeksee at his arms and figuring Darry's always been in a jumper or jacket, it's a foreign sight. Darry's dancing isn't bad, certainly not bad to look at, but his moves aren't traditional. Wayne watches from the corner of his eye, pretending his focus is elsewhere.

The dogs run in, excited because Darry's excited, and Darry holds one up by the front paws and gets to giggling, so unabashed with his joy. They're dancing around the small kitchen until both pups are barking and whipping their tails and they bump into Wayne.

"C'mon, Wayne, s'Christmas," Darry pleads.

"Ain't Christmas yet."

Darry swipes the bottle of Gus N' Bru from the counter and sloshes it over to Wayne. "'Is Christmas Eve," he says.

Fuck. Wayne's not the type of prick to turn down alcohol, so he takes the offering. He tilts the glass rim to his lips, gulps down the remainder without stopping for a break.

"Hoo-boy, knew she had it in 'er!" Darry whoops, delighted.

Darry's about to urge Wayne into dancing again, but Wayne says, "Carrots are done," and clicks the stove off.

Darry's well enough in that he's not embarrassed and he smiles, shoos the dogs out of the kitchen and into the living room. He turns the radio down and busies himself with carving the pot roast, which, once again, Wayne watches.

Just to make sure Darry doesn't hurt himself. Just to make sure.

Two plates are made: pot roast and carrots and a bread roll with butter on the side. They sit and eat and Wayne's relieved to find out that Darry isn't the type to pray before a meal because he's not positive he could survive being trapped between Jesus and this sally.

"Know what I think? This is some good fuckin pot roast, Darry," Wayne says after a few cycles of chew, chew, swallow.

Darry grins. "Good fuckin' carrots, too."

"Say that calls for a cheer of Gus N Bru."

"Couldn't agree more, Big Shoots." Darry gets up and retrieves a fresh bottle, two shot glasses.

They down them and Darry doesn't protest when Wayne pours them both a second round. The pot roast really is good and Wayne's starting to ease up, unwind from his formal front. There are worse people to be snow-locked with. Hockey nutsacks Wayne sees from time to time in town. Any number of scab-picking skids. Darry's a wee bit soft and a whole lot of awkward, but at least he's a good natured hick.

After dinner is done and the dogs have been dealt a few table scraps, Darry washes the dishes and Wayne dries them with a rag. At this point they've both got enough Gus N Bru shooting through their systems they're only one more shot away from being able to ignite their piss with a match. The radio's back to being cranked. Darry is careful with how he holds the plates, but it's clear the act takes effort.

Wayne can't blame him. His own knees are starting to feel pretty greased, too.

"Gonna give me one dance 'fore bedtime?" Darry asks, handing Wayne the large metal spoon they used to scoop carrots.

"How much you chargin' for 'em?"

Darry giggles. Hiccups. Dunks his hands back under the warm suds. "Who's chargin' who?"

Wayne exhales from the nose. "Fool in men's shoes," he mumbles. Regardless, he takes the last plate, dries it, and tosses the rag down on the counter. He holds his left hand out as invitation and Darry looks like he could goddamn burst into waterworks, he's so excited.

Darry takes Wayne's hand with a tight, clammy grip, half slick with soap suds, and immediately starts trying to rodeo him around the table.

"Whoa, now, Super Chief, what're we dancin' to?" Wayne asks, attempting to steady his wobbly, over eager partner.

"Rhythm of my heart," Darry answers with a bubbling giggle.

Wayne kicks the side of Darry's foot back into line. Drops his other hand to Darry's lower back to straighten him up. "Offer a guy a dance, you oughta serve him proper."

"Good ole boy down to the roots."

Wayne hums an affirmative noise and keeps up with directing Darry's tipsy shuffling. It's more an act of herding cats than it is dancing with another man. Something about it, though, Darry's unashamed joy, is wildly endearing. Polar opposite of Wayne, who remains stoic, face neutral almost to the point of comedy at times.

Thing is, Darry ain't bad at dancing. Has the right movements down, a natural push and pull; it's just that his excitement gets the best of him, alcohol loosening his restraint.

"Thank you, Wayne," Darry murmurs.

"Yuh. Figgered you wouldn't let up till I gave you one."

"First Christmas in years I ain't spent alone." With this said, Darry boxes in closer and lays his head to the broad expanse of Wayne's shoulder, practically clinging to him. It's not particularly needy. Darry's so goddamn soft, it reads as sincere, like he wants to get as close to Wayne as he can while he's got the chance.

"Hands don't ever come in the house?"

Darry hums sadly. "All got families out there that they tend to."

"Spose the old boss is always a prick till you meet the new one," Wayne says, a tad bit awkward.

Darry holds onto Wayne a minute or two more, then seems to come to his senses, seeing that he's a grown man leeched around another grown man he only hardly knows from work, and peels away. He's flushed and Wayne assumes it's not purely an alcohol related reaction.

"Here, show you to the guest bedroom. The bathroom," he mumbles.

"10-4."

Wayne follows Darry down the hall to a small room. Single bed made up with thin white and powder blue sheets, a standard oak dresser with not much on top other than old, worn-brass cow bell and a radio, which doesn't look like it's seen an electrical socket since the 80s. One window, a sparsely stocked bookshelf (mostly lined with books on agriculture, like almanacs), and a shaded lamp beside the bed for convenience.

"Hear me, uh, get up in the night, I'm just stoking the fire."

Wayne nods.

"Got some spare long johns and sleep shirts there in the dresser."

"Much appreciated, Darry."

"Good night, Wayne."

"Good night, Darry."

Darry steps back and closes the door. Wayne listens to him ramble down the hall, the quiet click of his own bedroom door being cricked shut. Wayne paws politely through the drawers until he finds some long underwear that look to be his fit and he pulls them on. Picks a sleep shirt with a buttoned collar.

Wayne crawls into bed, stiff at the touch and smell of a place other than his own house, and takes a long moment to even settle down between the sheets. The room smells like Darry and not. That slight tang of sunscreen that seems to stain every inch of the house, along with the dust of a room seldom used.

Down the hall, Darry's bed creaks beneath the heft of his weight. There's the clickity clatter of dog nails on hardwood then another creak, so Wayne assumes Darry's called the dogs into bed for the night.

Wayne remembers what Katy asked him, about spending another winter alone in the house with the dogs.

Most likely, she's got a strong point, and something about this situation is really hitting it home for Wayne.

* * *

Wayne wakes up once, around 5 in the morning, and stumbles to the bathroom to rock one. He flushes, washes his hands, ignores the disorienting unfamiliarity of the too-yellow light of the bathroom, and slumps back down on the mattress.

Not soon after, he hears Darry bare-foot shuffling down the hall, to the separate bathroom. He's half-awake, eyes closed, but aware enough to make sense of auditory actions. The shower head thunders on. Darry must be a creature of habit, can't be put to rest even on holidays. Wayne respects that.

He feels the need to get up and be ready to help Darry with the cows, but the sound of water on tile lulls him back to sleep. With vague, drowsy thoughts of Darry naked and freckled and dewed with warm mist.

* * *

Wayne takes a shower. Darry's already up and at 'em and Wayne feels a tad guilty for having slept in like he did, but Darry didn't say nothing or try to wake him. He scrubs down and ignores his morning happy horn by giving himself a blast of cold, then steps out and returns to the guest bedroom to find something to wear. His regulation attire from yesterday is worn and still on the wrong side of soggy from tramping around in the snow, which doesn't give him much of an option other than wearing Darry's stuff again.

Showing arms isn't his forte, but Darry's only got short sleeve plaids in the dresser and from what Wayne's seen, that's all he wears other than barn clothes. Cock hair shy of being an uncomfortably tight fit. No goddamn way Wayne's wearing Darry's boxers or briefs so it's a lucky break when Wayne finds nothing but long johns on account of them feeling less intimate than the former option. Over those are jeans too loose around the waist and too snug around the knees. Wayne wears pants that fit and that means he's without a belt and given the choice, would turn one down anyhow.

He'll just have to keep his thumbs hooked into his loops.

Darry's in the kitchen making eggs and toast and frying slices of ham and Wayne flushes with embarrassment. Looks like a tit, wet haired and just now rolling out of bed when Darry's been up for however long.

"Mornin'. Hope you like eggs," Darry greets, cheery as a children's book.

"Can confirm."

Darry cracks another egg into the pan he's stationed at. "Your buddy, Dan, called while yous was showerin'. Wanted to let you know your dogs are safe with him at his place. Power went out so he didn't get a chance to check in last night."

Wayne sits at the table. "Have to shovel him out as a thank you soon as I can."

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but might be a day or two more. Snow hasn't let up on the throttle."

"Fuck a duck."

Darry skewers a sheet of ham, slaps it down, steaming and sizzling, on a plate. This is accompanied by an egg, sunny side up, and to complete this, Darry plucks two squares of toast from the toaster. "Good breakfast will lead you down the right path, that's what I always say," Darry hums, setting the plate in front of Wayne.

"Gonna owe you more than some shoveling at this rate."

Darry smiles and steps over to the fridge. He says, "Merry Christmas, Wayne. Don't owe me squat."

Wayne blinks at the full realization. "Merry Christmas, Darry."

It's striking. Of course Wayne knew it was Christmas, but there's something so real about it now that Darry's gone and vocalized the situation.

Darry produces a bottle of fresh egg nog and clinks that down on the table along with a tub of butter.

Wayne says, "Thank you, Darry."

"Give that nog a little kick, I'll look the other way." He returns to his pan, flips his egg.

"Sewing seeds I can't rightly refuse reaping."

"Nip mine, I might even be grateful."

"10-4," and with that, Wayne fills the glasses in front of him and tops them off with a healthy splash of Gus N' Bru. He takes a slug. "Damn good nog, Darry. Fucking shame I got some spoiling in the fridge."

"Spot you an extra and we'll call it a day. No more favors needed." Darry arranges his own plate, clicks the stove off, and joins Wayne at the table.

Wayne hums. "Not sure that's an equal trade."

Darry takes a big bite of his toast, avalanching crumbs, and shrugs a shoulder. He says, "How about we tackle breakfast and go from there?"

Wayne can't find any reason to argue with that, and cuts a square from his ham.

Breakfast is tackled with just the right amount of enthusiasm and Darry, in the proper holiday spirit, puts the dirty dishes in the sink to soak. He's got a half hearted Charlie Brown tree set up in the living room and there are a couple of finely wrapped presents beneath it that weren't there the night before so it's only natural that Darry herds Wayne to the couch. Plops a box in his lap.

"Pups don't got the hands to do it themselves," Darry explains.

Now that is 10-ply, if Wayne's ever heard it, getting gifts for your dogs on Christmas and going through the effort of wrapping them, but on the other hand, Wayne can appreciate a man who takes good care of his animals. He keeps his opinions to himself and tears through the decorative paper.

The dogs get new leashes and squeaky toys, various treats and chew things. Both of them run circles, tails metronoming. Darry cleans up the wrapping paper and other scraps and from there out, they spend the rest of the day watching hockey.

Turns out, Darry's got a whole turkey in the oven, so he gets up regularly to baste the bird. For lunch, they have chicken salad for a second time, along with Puppers and chips, and as dessert, they rock a little darty party without even bothering to open the windows. It's a rather calm day, all and all, vegging on the couch and chin wagging during commercials.

By dinner time, Wayne's working with a fierce appetite. Darry and him went out to check the cows, provide them fresh hay, grain, and water, and after that, they shoveled off the steps and a bit of the main lane way. Something akin to admiration bubbled up inside Wayne when he learned Darry didn't have a snowblower, because, according to him, "Too much tech leaves behind restless hands and soft hips." Wayne couldn't agree more.

The turkey is carved and served alongside carrots, mashed potatoes, and green beans, all of which Wayne helped prepare and cook. Toasted bread rolls with butter accompany this and Darry says he's likely got a can of cranberry sauce in the pantry if that's so desired. They sit across from each other like the night before and after every couple of bites, wash the food down with eggnog.

"Know it's not like you've got much of a choice," Darry says after a minute, "but it's sorta nice to have someone else in the house for the holidays."

"I should say."

Since leaving for the city, there's been a couple of times that Katy's been too tied up to come down for Easter or Saint Patrick's Day, so Wayne knows the feeling well of being alone with just his pups.

Darry pushes his carrots around in a puddle of butter using his fork. "Had uh. Had a bit of a snortin' problem there for a while, so holidays haven't always been the best in that regard either."

Wayne blinks. That's an admission big as a barn fit for stacking hay. "Well, glad to see you've kicked it," he says. Wayne's not much for verbal comfort, but he's trying his hardest. "Not an easy task, so I've heard, and it seems you've turned around proper, and for the better."

Biting down a grin, Darry finally brings his gaze up to meet Wayne's eyes. Looks like he's absolutely beaming inside at the approval, the praise. "Thanks, Wayne," he murmurs, like if he speaks any louder, his voice might crack.

They finish up dinner with Darry taking a sharp turn toward hockey talk as to avoid any further confessions, and once their plates are emptied, they both take up task to clean. All the leftovers are wrapped and put away and once the dishes are scrubbed, Wayne steps in front of Darry before he can step away.

He holds his left hand out.

Darry doesn't need anything more than that to be spurred into Wayne's arm, nestled right up to his front like he's been plastered there.

Wayne isn't great with being vocal and whatnot, but physical reassurance is something he can manage just fine, so long as it's on his own terms. Hick deserves a dance on Christmas, especially a true and blue farmer who's gone straight, favors Puppers, and treats his dogs right (albeit, a bit too soft).

They dance slow in the kitchen. Both the dogs are asleep on the couch, tuckered out from playing in the snow and whipping their new toys around, so really, it's just Wayne and Darry. Things smell warm and safe, and from the living room, the stove casts a few orange fingers of light in over the tile.

Wayne kind of sees it coming, but it still sets his heart ablaze when Darry toes up and gives him a peck on the mouth. He must look surprised, because Darry starts to shrink away, mouse-ish and afraid, mumbling a broken up, "Sorry, I thought—" but Wayne drops both hands to his hips and gives Darry the kiss he deserves. It's not dirty, but it's long and deep. Wayne can feel Darry unspooling in his hands.

"Merry Christmas, Darry." Foolishly, it's the only thing Wayne can think to say when they break apart.

Darry's lightheaded and delighted and he giggles. "Merry Christmas, Wayne." He smiles bashfully, takes a moment to consider, then leans in and gives Wayne a quick kiss on the very edge of his mouth. Just because he can, it appears.

* * *

One thud against the window and Wayne bolts upright in bed. Two more thuds whack against the wall and a fourth nails the window with enough force that Wayne fears whatever is going on outside is going to result in shattered glass. Wayne's already cross having been awoke so rudely but that gets shifted up to downright pissed when he takes a peeksee out the window and is greeted by eggs spattered round like a henhouse massacre.

"Fuckin degens," Wayne growls. "Fuckin' skids."

He swings his door open, stomps to the front door, and forces his boots on without bothering with a jacket or jeans. Snow is gathered up to mid-shin depth again, but Wayne's not one to be deterred when a couple of inbreds need an ass kicking. He clomps down the steps and rounding the house, spots the culprits.

Local skids. Stewart and Roald.

"Goddamn scab-pickers."

The two weasels spring to life when they notice Wayne, jump up like live wires and spin their wheels in the snow. Roald is making squeaky little beeping sounds, flapping his arms. He swings around to cling to Stewart and in doing this, causes Stewart to drop his carton of eggs. Skid isn't one to have his priorities straight, so Stewart goes to reach for the cardboard and cracked shells, but not before Wayne gets a fist around his collar.

"Now what. In the absolute fuck. Do you think you're doing?"

Roald twitters and looks fit for waterworks. He's coiled tight around Stewart and not willing to let go, meaning Wayne's essentially got the both of them in his grip.

Stewart sneers. "That hick, Daryl, kicked his powder habit and hence, has stopped delivering his products to us," he murmurs, voice low and cool given the circumstances. He sniffles and Wayne can't figure if it's from the cold or if this skid railed a line before coming out here. "Roald used to hand churn ice cream with Daryl's milk and nothing else even comes close to compare."

"Daryl's an ethical source, too!" Roald peeps. "We might be skids, but we care about Mother Earth."

Wayne is too angry to point out the major flaw in logic here: wasting commercially farmed eggs to disgrace the house of a true and blue dairy farmer.

"I suggest you two make yourselves gone before I arrange you both closed casket funerals."

Roald swallows audibly.

Stewart brushes Wayne's hand aside and takes a dainty step back. "Physical violence is so… barbaric," he whispers.

Wayne is well and done with this shit. He leans down, scoops up the dropped eggs, and starts hucking them. Real solid baseball swings that nail the skids in the face and chest. They sputter and cry and fumbling through the snow, skitter off into the dark.

This leaves Wayne alone, yolk and white hammocking between his fingers, stuck with the annoyance of cleaning up the window. He returns to the house and while he's washing his hands, Darry, composed of crumpled pajamas and fluffy bedhead curls, trips into the kitchen.

"What's the fuss?"

"Skids were outside eggin'." Wayne dries his hands and takes the sponge from the sink, drops down to a squat to look for some sort of cleaner spray.

Darry sours immediately. "You catch 'em?"

"Can confirm."

"Fuckin' skids. Was Stewart, wasn't it?"

Wayne finds some foaming bleach. "Sure as God's got sandals."

"You don't have to go out and clean that off yourself," Darry says when Wayne stands. "You already took care of the important part."

"Up and at 'em. Might as well finish the job."

There's something real soft in Darry's just woke up eyes and it makes Wayne's heart rattle around like a loosed bolt in his chest. Darry parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out of him. He goes to the door and starts to pull on his boots.

Together, they wash down the sullied window, picking off the little bits of shell. It doesn't take long and back inside, they strip down to their sleepwear again.

This time, however, Darry takes Wayne's hand and leads him to the bedroom. It's certainly not a belt grab and tug, Wayne knows that, and he doesn't feel pressured. He goes along with it and they settle in beside each other, not exactly touching, but not avoiding it either.

* * *

The bed shifts and the weight of Darry's heavy, sleeping body rolls away from Wayne until the mattress is relieved completely of it. Half awake, Wayne reaches an arm out in search of the other, and mumbles, "Sweetie…"

Standing somewhere above him, Darry laughs warmly. Wayne's hand finds his bare arm and he gives him a weak squeeze, but Darry untangles from the grasp. "Gotta check the gals right quick, Wayne."

"H'w're'theynow?"

"Need to find out. I'll let ya know when I know."

"Good 'nough." In place of Darry's absence, Wayne mashes a pillow to his chest and hugs it.

"Good stuff."

And with this, Darry slinks out of the room, hushing the dogs, and gets a start on the day.

* * *

It's almost disappointing to find the roads clear and plowed. The feeling is mutual, if the look on Darry's face says anything, his bottom lip stuck out, his eyebrows worried tight.

Wayne turns stiffly to look directly at him. "Darry."

"Wayne."

Wayne swallows. "Exposed to get back to my pups and if possible, my sister, Katy."

"Kept you hostage long enough."

"But. Tradition is you're exposed to kiss someone on New Year's and if I'm being honest—"

"Oh, you should always be honest."

"If I'm being honest, I've got no one at home to kiss."

Darry cracks into a wild smile and his cheeks rosy up fast. "Askin' to be my midnight kiss?"

"If you'll have me."

Darry's getting to giggling, all that happiness in him spilling out, and he says, "Be a damn honor."

Wayne starts to pull on his jacket, already in his boots. "Have my number."

Darry nods his confirmation. "10-4."

Wayne's eyes go to the ceiling, a bit embarrassed, and he tries to adjust his tongue in his mouth. "Would say don't hesitate to text but…"

"But you're the type of prick that likes a phone call or, if possible, a face to face?"

"Co-rrect, Little Shoots."

"I'll call ya, Wayne."

That about wraps things up. Wayne's dressed and ready to go out the door, a bottle of eggnog under his arm, keys in his pocket. He lingers a moment, unsure, then ducks down and gives Darry a gentleman's kiss on the cheek.

"Sally," Darry whispers. He puts an arm around Wayne's neck to keep him in place and kisses him goodbye.

Once he's in his truck and allowed her to warm for a minute, he shifts into gear. He looks up at the small house he's been anchored to for the last couple days and sure enough, Darry's on the porch. He waves.

And Wayne waves back.

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas yall
> 
> had bigger plans with this but 10k is enough right? wanted to get it out for the holiday + the season 9 launch
> 
> hope yall enjoyed!! stay safe + happy holidays


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